


here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

by the-reylo-void (Anysia)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8538148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anysia/pseuds/the-reylo-void
Summary: Here is the place where I love you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Rue's Lullaby" from THG. A bit of wistfulness to counter a difficult week in my country.

There are things that an acolyte must hide from his master.

 

Fear, regret, sentimentality. Emotion is weakness, and Snoke has little use for it. Kylo has learned to bury his feelings deep, grits his teeth against the burn of screams at the tip of his tongue, against the awful stab beneath his breastbone that never fades entirely and grows sharper each day.

 

His master knows of his young apprentice's fragility, volatility. Even as he seeks to destroy the last vestiges of warmth within his heart, Kylo's anger burns bright, destructive and consuming. It is a fine thing, steeped in darkness and flame, and it suits him, this broken, grasping creature.

 

But these things his master knows: his anger, the weakness of sentiment deep in his bones, the light that seeps through the cracks in his training. These are things that Snoke has ripped from him, examined in the shadows, and allowed, for now.

 

But his master does not know of the dreams.

 

Kylo sleeps little and dreams less. Ben had done the same, when the soft-hearted boy had still lived — he was a weak, fragile thing, a too-sentimental child who too often woke screaming. He would curl up in his mother's arms, when he could ( _when his parents still cared for him_ , he thinks, and old bitterness still poisons his thoughts), but the darkness followed him, oppressive and immobilizing even in his waking hours.

 

The dreams had ceased once he'd turned his blade against Luke Skywalker, against the fledgling remnants of the Jedi, and taken his rightful place at his master's side.

 

For years he'd steeled his mind, blocked out the slow turn of memory that threatened the strength, the peace he sought in the darkness.

 

Until Starkiller.

 

Until _her_.

 

"Allow your wounds to scar," his master had told him, voice calm and dark as Kylo knelt before him, struggling not to scream in pain and dripping blood. "So you do not forget the brand this girl has lain upon you."

 

Before his master's gaze, Kylo had sworn vengeance, retribution.

 

At night, he sees her face, and his answering touch is gentle.

 

There is no one framework for the nightmares, not like those that tainted his childhood, when his master's wizened face beckoned from the shadows night after night.

 

Now, there is always her, but it is never the same.

 

Some nights they slot together, saber to saber, teeth bared and eyes narrowed as they fight until they're both exhausted, leaning hard against each other.

 

Sometimes she wins.

 

Sometimes he yields.

 

Inevitably, she stands above him in victory.

 

These are the bearable dreams, the ones that hum with violence, with hatred, with the seething anger that makes sense to him, makes sense with her.

 

But there are others.

 

Sometimes he dreams of her smile. Her eyes alight with it, her cheeks rosy, and she reaches for him.

 

Sometimes his dreams are carnal, desirous. He tastes her skin, clutches her hips and fucks her, slow and deep. Her cries are dove-soft, his name a breathy sigh as she twines her fingers into his hair and tilts her hips up to meet his, falls to pieces around him.

 

Sometimes he sees her in sunlight, all disheveled hair and a crooked grin, her arms gathering up a chubby toddler with her eyes and his ears. He feels a great swell of pity for the boy, but she laughs, hands him the child (hers, _theirs_ ) and tells him that he's beautiful, she loves him anyway.

 

(He's never sure if she's talking about her son or the broken man before her. Both seem too impossible to consider, even in sleep.)

 

And some nights, the rarest, on the darkest and coldest nights, he wakes in his dreams, his breath catches in his throat, and there are warm, comforting arms around him, adoring kisses pressed to his temples, his cheeks, his lips.

 

Rey holds his hand as he weeps.

 

She calls him "Ben".

 

These are the dreams from which he wakes gasping, desperate, the ones he pushes swiftly to the back of his mind, wraps up tight and hides from the insistent touch of his master.

 

These are the dreams that he unwittingly screams into the night, across the stars.

 

Rey catches them, wakes from them as often as he does, exhausted in body and spirit from her training.

 

Her horror, her desperation match his, and she too hides them from her master.

 

They cannot hide them from each other.

 

Kylo wonders what it means that neither of them try.

 

He feels her, on the darkest nights, and her presence is comforting. They do not speak, even when this thing between them hums with the weight of their dreams.

 

Hers have begun to blend with his. They are darker, more frightening, and his dream-self holds her, kisses her and pulls her through the shadows.

 

_I hate you_ , she weeps in his arms, and does not pull away.

 

_I want to hate you_ , he responds.

 

Sometimes Rey slams him up against a wall, wraps her legs around his hips and steals the breath from his lungs, her kisses bruising, punishing.

 

Sometimes she dreams of their son, and she holds the boy tightly to her and whispers promises Kylo can't hear.

 

Sometimes they die together, hands clasped, sabers extinguished, and their masters dead before them.

 

Sometimes he loves her.

 

Sometimes she loves him.

 

The only constant is their waking together, light-years apart, breath short and hands reaching and the groggy press of sleep over them, of fading memories of a world where they stood together.

 

A world where they wanted to. Where they could.

 

_Say something_ , he says once, through the bond, this thing that joins them, and the weakness of sentiment tears through him. The emptiness of the space beside him cries out for her.

 

She is silent. Always.

 

But once, just once, Kylo feels phantom fingers ghost across his palm, feels Rey’s twine with his and hold firm.

 

He clutches her hand until morning. He feels the shadow of her curl into his arms and holds it tight.

 

When he sleeps, he dreams of sunlight.


End file.
